


Unpack Your Heart

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Post-it Notes, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:42:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6004660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first note appears on a Friday that just happens to also be Valentine’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unpack Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkvoices/gifts).



> Written for the be_compromised Valentine's promptathon. With thanks to everyone who helped me come up with notes and encouraged me to write this even though I had no time. ;)

Clint is working late the day he comes up with the idea. Partly it’s because his stack of procrastinated expense reports and other paperwork has gotten so tall that he’s sure Maria’s about ready to revoke his access to the lounge with the good coffee pot (again), but also because he knows that Natasha is meeting with Fury, getting her first performance review since gaining Level One status. He knows she won’t tell him how it went unless he asks, and he doesn’t want to wait until tomorrow morning to do that. Which is why he’s spent more time with his gaze focused on the hallway than the computer screen, and also why Accounting will probably get an extra dose of entertainment trying to decipher his writing once these reports are submitted. 

In the end, it turns out his concern over intercepting Natasha before she leaves for the night is entirely unfounded, because she marches right over to his cubicle and presents him with a page of his own writing. “What is this?”

Clint blinks, unsure what she’s asking or, more precisely, _why_ she’s asking it. “My report for your evaluation? You know that.”

“No,” says Natasha, holding the papers a little closer to his face and pointing out a quote she’s underlined. “This.”

“Still a part of my report,” Clint says bemusedly, because he can’t see anything notable, any reason why she’d be fixated on this particular sentence.

She sighs, apparently realizing that he’s hopeless. “You said you enjoy working with me. Why?”

“Why do I enjoy working with you?” he asks, still frowning in confusion. He’s fairly certain he’s elaborated on that in the report, and she’s clearly capable of reading it.

“No,” says Natasha. “Why did you write it?”

He runs a hand through his hair, concludes it’s too late in the day for this kind of a conversation. He doesn’t have enough functioning brain cells left to figure out what she’s talking about. “It’s true?”

“But why is it relevant?” she insists. “Making you like me isn’t one of the job requirements.”

Clint snorts, then realizes that she’s serious. “Maybe not,” he agrees, “but it’s definitely relevant.”

“I think you and I have a different definition of that word,” says Natasha. “And I’m not sure why it’s true, either.” 

She sets the pages down on the edge of his desk and leaves without another word.

* * *

The first note appears three days after her evaluation, on a Friday that just happens to also be Valentine’s. 

Natasha’s the last one in the gym, finishing an endurance routine she hasn’t had the time to do nearly often enough since coming to S.H.I.E.L.D. Her legs feel heavy with muscle fatigue as she finally makes her way to the locker room to collect her things and leave for the night.

She nearly misses the note, written on a Post-it and slipped through one of the vents. She frowns as she picks it up and unfolds it, half expecting it to be a joke from someone celebrating the holiday with the sort of irritating immaturity she’s been witnessing all day. 

_I like you because you didn’t call me Cupid today._

She recognizes Barton’s handwriting immediately, notable because of the way it slants across the paper, which he’s perpetually holding at a tilt. Carelessly identifiable, her instructors would have said.

Natasha stares at the message for a long moment, trying to decide what to make of it. Her first thought is that he’s angling for something, might even be testing her. She digs a pen out of her bag and considers, finally writing _don’t tempt me_ on the opposite side and sliding it into his locker.

* * *

Clint Barton is one of the most stubborn and persistent people Natasha has ever known. She figured that out within approximately five minutes of first meeting him, knew it, in fact, before she’d fully arrived at her decision to give what he had to say a chance instead of shooting him on the spot. 

All things considered, she probably ought to have realized that his surprise Valentine wouldn’t be a one-time occurrence. She hasn’t, though, and the second note, nearly a week later, takes her by surprise all over again. 

The note is scrawled on a folded Post-it again, shoved through the vents in her locker like the first, only this time a bit of the adhesive’s gotten caught, so the thing hangs stuck on the inside of the door. She snags it in two fingers, vaguely unnerved because it wasn’t there the first time she opened her locker today, which means Barton somehow managed to get it in there without her noticing while she was in the shower.

 _I like you because you didn’t knee me in the balls today,_ says the note. 

Natasha laughs in spite of herself, which earns a wary look from an agent whose name she doesn’t know, trying to change while keeping as much distance between them as possible. She shoots a glare in the older woman’s direction before writing _seriously, don’t tempt me_ on the back of the note and sending it back where it came from.

* * *

Within a week of being assigned a cubicle and her very own share of boring administrative work, Natasha has a morning routine developed. It involves coming in twenty-three minutes before the required time--late enough not to arouse undue suspicion, but still early enough to avoid having to exchange pleasantries with the other agents with whom she now shares a lounge and office. 

She still can’t bring herself to leave food that she plans to eat in an unmonitored room, has always been taught to keep consumables in her own control. Twenty-three minutes gives her time to prepare a suitably strong mug of tea and take it back to her desk before anyone else is interested in using the kettle. It still strikes her as a bit of a luxury, having these things at her disposal, no special price on their use. 

Three Wednesdays into her new rituals, she decides to take a chance. Barton’s been positively relentless with small favors lately, especially where food is concerned. Natasha isn’t sure he’s picked up on the fact that she isn’t accustomed to having more than the bare minimum or if he’s got some other agenda, but he’s been bringing her drinks and snacks from every trip he makes to the cafeteria. 

Natasha regards the coffee pot appraisingly for a long moment before opening the top of it to investigate the basket. She knows how to make coffee, in theory, has even had to do it as part of her cover on a few assignments. But it will never be her drink of choice. Still, after a few minutes of searching and a read of the instructions on the back of the coffee packet, she manages a mug of something that appears to be perfectly acceptable.

“What’s this?” asks Barton, when he arrives nine minutes later and finds it sitting on his desk.

“Coffee,” says Natasha, not looking away from her computer screen.

“I know,” he says, though he still sounds vaguely confused. “But--you made it for me?”

She shrugs, glances over in time to see him picking up the mug and taking an experimental sip. “Repayment for the french fries yesterday. Or whatever you want to take it as.”

He grins, takes a longer swallow. “Agent Romanoff, are you going soft? I think you just did something nice for me.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, goes back to the training module she’s just started. 

On Thursday morning, she arrives at the kitchen to find a folded slip of paper hidden under her mug, which has been resting upside down on a paper towel to dry.

 _I like you because you make me terrible coffee,_ says the note.

She eyes it for a moment before folding it back up and quickly pocketing it. This morning, she decides, he’ll be getting tea.

* * *

_I like you because you think I can pull off purple,_ says the note.

This one is stowed inside her bag, stuck to the back of the cell phone S.H.I.E.L.D. is finally allowing her to have--strictly monitored, of course. She hasn’t noticed the intruding Post-it until now, already back in her quarters. She probably ought to find Barton’s ever-growing ability to elude her guard alarming, but instead she can’t help smiling. 

She’s planned on spending the evening quietly with a book, but a new plan has already replaced that. 

Natasha secures a spool of ribbon from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s extensive wardrobe department, heads to weapons storage under the pretense of some late-night target practice which thankfully isn’t so out of the ordinary here. From there, it’s easy to find Clint’s storage space and pick the lock--he uses the same combination for here and the gym, one which she memorized weeks ago. 

There are easily three dozen fresh arrows between the two quivers stored here. She ties a neat purple bow just beneath the fletching on each one.

* * *

“I don’t understand people’s infatuation with Bond,” says Natasha, though she’s actually pretty sure she _does_ know what elements of this film appeal to the public. She just doesn’t agree. 

Clint looks away from the television for a moment to give her his most theatrical look of shock. “Agent Romanoff, the man is a legend. And classic Bond is the best Bond.”

“He’d make a terrible spy,” she insists. “All action, no strategy. And far too many explosions.”

Clint laughs and offers her the popcorn bowl. “Yeah, but you can’t make a movie about camping out on a roof for a three day stakeout. The audience would be bored out of their minds.”

“Sure you _could_ ,” Natasha insists. “Call it an avant garde experience and I bet it would even win some awards.”

“You’re weird,” says Clint, and gets up to refill his mug with lukewarm coffee.

 _I like you because you watch old movies with me,_ says the note on Natasha’s desk the next morning. She decides she could do worse than to sit through more films about terrible spies.

* * *

Natasha wakes with a start, her heart hammering in her chest. For a moment all she feels is the headlong plummeting sense of disorientation. The room is dark and quiet, but she knows immediately that it isn’t hers. She sits upright in a rush, feeling around for anything that might be useful as a makeshift weapon--and comes up with a television remote.

The memory comes rushing back to her all at once as her fingers close around it. She’s in Clint’s living room, on his couch, where she’s apparently managed to fall asleep after a week of too many rough nights. Careless, she chides herself, though also harmless in this instance. 

Fumbling to switch on the lamp on the end table, she finally manages to produce a flood of light, which in turn makes her eyes blur with residual sleep. Blinking it away, she sees that Clint has spread the old, threadbare afghan from the back of the couch over her and cleared their dinner dishes from the coffee table. In their place sits a slip of paper, one which she’s half come to expect at times like this, when she’s caught in this odd space between comfort and vulnerability.

 _I like you because you can handle your half of the extra large pizza,_ says the note. _(Even if you did fall asleep on me.)_

Natasha folds it into a neat square, holds it in the palm of her hand for a long moment before switching off the light and curling back into the cushions of the couch.

* * *

They’ve completed nearly a dozen field missions together when things go sideways for the first time. 

Natasha has already completed her objectives, has the ridiculous gilded bracelet believed to be concealing several microchips full of critical intel in hand. She’s feeling pretty good about things, riding high on the adrenaline of success when she arrives at the appointed rendezvous to find that Clint isn’t there. Only then does she realize that he’s been silent on the comms for the last several minutes, that she’s had such a narrow focus on getting the bracelet and getting herself out that she’s managed to lose track of her partner entirely. 

The next few hours are a frantic blur--disregarding S.H.I.E.L.D.’s instructions to remain at the rendezvous, fighting her way single-handedly back through the building she’s just robbed, sitting through what feels like an interminable debriefing before she’s finally allowed to go to Medical and check on Clint. 

The receptionist eyes her like she’s insane, and she realizes she probably doesn’t look much better, still in her tac suit, splattered with blood and smelling of gunpowder. For a moment she’s certain that she’s about to be denied, will have to fight her way through one more battle today. 

“Agent Romanoff?” a woman’s voice breaks in, and Natasha turns to see an older doctor standing just outside the doors to the clinic, beckoning her over.

Natasha follows her lead and is ushered into an office, apparently for privacy.

“You’re here to see Agent Barton, right?” says the doctor, whose badge says Glenn.

She nods. “What, did you smell his blood on me?” She intends it to lighten the tension she’s feeling, doesn’t realize until the words are out of her mouth just how macabre they sound. 

Dr. Glenn doesn’t react. “Fury told me you’d be coming. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Barton’s already in surgery. You won’t be able to talk to him until morning, most likely.”

“But he’ll survive?” asks Natasha, cursing the way her stomach’s dropped at the sound of the words _bad news_.

“Oh, definitely,” says Dr. Glenn. “His injuries aren’t serious, but we always take a proactive approach as far as surgically removing shrapnel. Any kind of subdermal metal inclusion carries a risk of compromising our agents later on in their line of work.”

Natasha nods, swallows, tries to find something to say that doesn’t sound pathetically young or unnerved.

“He asked me to give you this,” says Dr. Glenn, holding out a piece of paper.

Natasha takes it in shaking fingers, reads _I like you because you came back for me_.

“Damn you,” she whispers, and resolves to find somewhere nearby to wait until morning.

* * *

“You’ve had quite the year, Romanoff,” says Fury, by means of opening her very first official annual review. 

She’s seated on the far side of his desk, with Clint on her right, in the office that seemed infinitely more intimidating twelve months ago. Today it feels familiar, almost comfortable. “Thank you, I think?”

Fury actually laughs at that. “Well, when we brought you in, I thought you’d be an asset to S.H.I.E.L.D. To say you have exceeded my expectations would be an understatement.”

“Are you saying she has a great asset?” asks Clint, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “He’s totally saying you have a great asset.”

Natasha gives him a look of disapproval, still aware that this is an evaluation, that they are in the presence of an authority figure.

Fury doesn’t even dignify the comment with a response. “Together, you two have had a higher success rate than any other team of agents in the last six months. I always suspected Barton would do better with a partner, if we could find one who’d put up with him long enough.”

It feels surreal, being praised this way, the sort of moment she’d wished for as a little girl, given up dreaming of as she got older, learned that her life was not one that included celebrations. For a few moments her mind wanders as Fury continues to list their achievements, tries to insist that this must be some sort of cruel trick, that all of it must be about to come crashing down around her.

Clint’s hand on her arm makes her jump, and it’s only then that she realizes they are being dismissed, that this has been an unequivocal good review without any sort of trap she’s been trying to guard against. She takes a moment to shake Fury’s hand, doesn’t feel fully grounded again until they are out in the hall, on the way back to the office.

“Hey,” says Clint, stopping in her path and digging something out of his pocket. “Wrote this for you before the meeting.” He turns and continues on his way without another word, leaving her to read the note and catch up later.

 _I like you because you proved me right,_ says the note, and only then does she realize that Clint somehow already knew what Fury was going to say, saw it coming all on his own.

* * *

It’s well past dinnertime when Clint finally makes his way to the locker room. He’s gotten caught up at the range, as he has so many other times before, lost track of the hours slipping away as he tested new arrowheads from SciTech. His favorite of the new batch is one that sets off a mini electromagnetic pulse upon impact. Perfect for disabling aircraft, or any number of other systems. Still, that’s one he’ll have to store and monitor very carefully. He has no desire to lose yet another cell phone to an unruly trick arrow.

The locker room is nearly deserted when he arrives, though he doesn’t miss the fact that Natasha is standing in front of the mirror, combing out her long wet hair.

The slip of paper catches his eye immediately when he opens his locker. It’s not the first time someone’s slipped a note in here, but this does have the distinction of being the first one written on bright purple paper.

 _I like you because you see me,_ says the note when he unfolds it. He glances over at Natasha, realizes she must have been here waiting for him to find it. 

“I do,” says Clint, watching the smile spread over her reflection in the mirror before she turns to face him. “I always have.”

“I know,” she says simply, holding his gaze for a long time, the silence laden with something Clint can’t quite name, something beyond the simple joy he feels at having this gesture returned.

“Hey,” he says finally, sticking the Post-it to the inside of his locker door before closing it securely. “You want to come over for pizza tonight? I’ve got another movie that I think you’re really gonna hate.”


End file.
